Thoughts Whilst In Flight.

This is weird, you have been warned

Hartford to Atlanta

I imagine what it would be like to live in jet streams. My infinite habitation expanding as each ugly mid-westerner flies home.

I love the horizon of fluff. The little metal carcass of dreams and cinnamon flutters through a layer of floating, frozen water; splattering eye-dimming gasses across the window with the tiny little hole on the bottom of it. It's shaped like oblong pieces of bad, rubbery sushi bought in a plastic, false container in a grocery story for four twenty seven.

I see my entertainment room, expanding over the horizon line, and see myself playing a game with friends as we plummet through it at almost ten meters per second carrot two. The plans for my home will have to be reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright; latitude flatitude.

The Appalachians twist minuscule rivets, forming mouths in peaked wisdom, they'll tell us the big secret when we're the next dinos, skeletons hanging in museums, speculations of our Christmas on little plaques by a carbonized and rusting set of speakers an iPod; set to constantly play David Bowie's “Dancing in the Street” to show how people learned “Gee-ografy”.

I can see a smiling face in the clouds, but I have to see it from a perspective as if I were looking at the nape of her neck, behind the ears. I'm level with the face; some flocks of birds nested in the nooks of the mountains have a imaginary, forced happy cumulus stalker.

I want to press my head against the viewing station, submit the plastic to the grease of my forehead, my Italian side showing it's pride. The stupid airplane designers made the window covers wrong. They're supposed to go all the way up, only little nubs of plastic to be in the way of you and the window, only set of strung beads separating my bedroom and the kitchen. There is a large plastic handle and I'm not short enough anymore to bypass it. I tried to kiss the aroma of gingerbread cookies with the logo of the airline printed on wafting from my kitchen, but the large and pointy handle got in the way.

I saw figments of the people I know from school. A sleeping once class-mate, flickers of pictures hidden behind his glasses as he waited for the same plane I am on now.

I saw my orientation leader, tall and timid strides, looking like a deer trying to find the protective forest in a grocery store. She said hi, mistaking my use of the terminal to shut down my laptop as me trying to work and left me alone.

A little chalice of little frost-bits surround the comforting part of the window design, the little hole. I want the hole to be okay, unhindered by ice and the forces of evil. I wonder how loud the sound of the plastic and metal, man-made flying machines with engines that can flip buses, ripping from itself, a painful divorce with a news-covered lawsuit; pawning the ring for blow. I bet it'll sound real and strong. I half want to find out, but like the test of the cellphone on a plane by Adam and Jamie. Safe, half a day from home, nothing to worry about.

Atlanta Layover

Told in excitement once two weeks ago once an hour ago to buy food from “We didn't invent the Chicken, just the Chicken Sandwich”, mediocre at best, serving soft and unappealing lumps of chicken with the sweet crunchy pickles that aren't found in anything on the west coast. Hunter Houses's onion-charred grills served in greasy foil love, smelled sweetly of these pickles, and I fall in love all over again with the chicken sandwich.

I rage and seethe, my inner-hippy-dippy infuriated, lamenting that I cannot connect. Eight bucks a pop kid, light the town up tonight for eight bucks. Eight little crisp, crinkled and worn dollars for a measly hour of probably slow wireless. I rage and seethe, my hair goes white and my teeth shrink to barely nothing as I sit here and hate.

It subsides and I find myself without words, to write or to say. I listen to music, or contemplate what I would say if someone asked me what I did to my poor computer and why it looks like OS X is eating away at its patheticness. The brick loves how my fingers know their way around it's buttons. I press, but no reaction except from its figment of my imagination. It is a tool, and I have no qualms in using it.

I curse the administration that decided that charging in mid-transiters for internet. If I only had a wireless router. I would light this town in a engulfing flame of Hamsters on Pianos. Forty-five dollars, an electronic handsaw capable of breaking through drywall, splicing tools for a pop kid. Light the town up. I'm curious to know what would happen if I were caught trying to free the wireless for every glum looking grandma wearing a red hand-knitted sweater with a reindeer or a wreath motif on it and funny-walking kids with their baseball caps sidewise with glasses on in the dark and tired moms and finally sleeping babies; I would probably be arrested, or electrocuted. Perhaps both, since I don't know practical electronics to take a shit. At least I got waffle-fries.

Atlanta to San Diego

There are touch screens on the back of the seat in front of me. I can watch television, satellite not working, little linux penguin says we plummet to the ground. Interactive trivia game, touch and Cleveland trips me up, hidden hand comes out of the horizon in front of me. I feel like a little child that's tormenting the person in front of me, but I can be told off. Movies and food for hard-earned cash and I watch the plane from a false birds'-eye view. Jet stream to be is green, my future home is inviable to me. What is my home that I cannot see is red. Cloudless skies, my home disappears. I plug into the airplane, it feel like the Matrix, I can control the way the plane movies, I can make a playlist of Moby and Zero 7, I can beat Tamm in the trivia, try slapping my hands away this time.

I miss home and my heart breaks for my home that was transient and airborne.

Arcade Fire speaks rhythm and truths to me and I miss April when I saw 17 and eating donuts and bad potato salad and the metallic-after-tasting macaroni salad at three in the morning. Crack jokes about sudo and ask the fellow next to me if he liked Doctor Who. He beats me in trivia once, I beat him once; a tie across the Atlantic.

Be Seeing You.


Love, Zach